


What Dreams Are Made Of

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Consent is Sexy, Emotional Baggage, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Blow Jobs, For the most part, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Soft and Fluffy, Tenderness, Three for the price of one, rated e for emotional vulnerability, talking about our feelings is for losers, we fuck through our feelings instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: “I love you, you know.” Aziraphale says it as if it’s nothing at all, something that Crowley should have known for years. “Gosh, but it feels good to say that out loud at last!”Crowley’s mouth is the Sahara, dry and silent. His tongue lies fat and useless behind his teeth, resolutely refusing to cooperate in whatever monosyllabic nonsense he might utter. He had plans for this, contingencies and variations depending on the exact scenario that Aziraphale might choose to finally give voice to his feelings. He can’t remember a blasted one of them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 71
Kudos: 396
Collections: Ineffable First Times





	What Dreams Are Made Of

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caedmon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caedmon/gifts).



> A belated but very sincere happy birthday to my delicious and talented twin, Caedmon!  
> Please enjoy this very feels-heavy porn. I hope you like it <3 I love you!
> 
> One of these days I'll remember to thank NarumiKaiko for her INCREDIBLE betaing services before I hit post. Today was not that day but I did remember before too long! Thank you Narumi! I love you!

“I love you, you know,” Aziraphale says it as if it’s nothing at all, something that Crowley should have known for years. “Gosh, but it feels good to say that out loud at last!”

Crowley’s mouth is the Sahara, dry and silent. His tongue lies fat and useless behind his teeth, resolutely refusing to cooperate in whatever monosyllabic nonsense he might utter. He had plans for this, contingencies and variations depending on the exact scenario that Aziraphale might choose to finally give voice to his feelings. He can’t remember a blasted one of them.

How long has he been silent and staring? Has his mouth been hanging open this whole time? Has it been so long that the moment has passed and Aziraphale will bustle them into a line of conversation that won’t tear Crowley’s chest open?

A warm hand covers his, a gentle pressure that grounds him to the moment. It occurs to Crowley that he might be having a panic attack which isn’t part of any of his plans, he’s pretty sure about that, at least. He’s read about this, he can get ahead of it, he’s sure. Close eyes, deep breath.

The tablecloth is smooth under his fingers, just as Aziraphale’s hand is soft and warm above it. The chair he’s sitting on is cushioned, the back is carved wood and he can feel it against his spine. His left foot is on the floor, his right ankle hooked across the knee in a manner that the head waiter clearly disapproves of.

Eyes open.

There’s his coffee cup on the table, steam rising in a thin ribbon. A solid silver candlestick holder in the centre of the table, the faintly yellow shine of good quality silver. He turns his head ever so slightly to look at the little sugar bowl that accompanied his coffee to the table. A few feet away, a couple are celebrating an anniversary with an expensive lunch. Crowley looks at the champagne bottle on their table, forcing himself to read the label.

The pianist is playing something gentle and inoffensive; Crowley doesn’t recognise it but he catalogues it anyway. Towards the kitchens, a waiter is opening a bottle of wine, the cork makes a pleasing little pop when it is pulled free. Two tables behind where he’s sitting, a mother and daughter are debating whether one puts jam or cream on a scone first.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley sorts through the scents to find the most distinct. Salmon, fresh and lightly seared, is prominent and easily distinguished from the rest. More pressing than that is the vanilla and petrichor scent of Aziraphale. He’s not sure that counting this one is the best idea but now that he’s acknowledged it he can’t focus on anything else.

Taste is easy, he thinks, closing his eyes once again. He shifts his focus towards his mouth, finding it much more cooperative than it had been mere moments before. The last sense to tick off in this ritual of grounding was simply the lingering flavour of-

Aziraphale!

Crowley’s eyes shoot open to confirm the evidence reported by his lips. Aziraphale is leaning across the gulf between them and  _ kissing  _ him,  _ right on the lips _ . Crowley’s senses immediately forget everything he’s been cataloguing and overwrite it with the feel of Aziraphale’s lips against his, the bliss visible in Aziraphale’s eyes, the sound of his happy sigh, the scent of his breath hot on Crowley’s top lip, and, when he parts his lips ever so slightly, the taste of Aziraphale’s tongue cautiously licking into Crowley’s mouth.

It’s more grounding than the smell of salmon or the delicate airs coming from the piano. Simultaneously, Crowley is leaving his body and floating away because  _ Aziraphale is kissing him _ and he doesn’t know how else to respond. One gentle hand reaches up to cup Crowley’s cheek and the fingertips barely brush the fine hairs above his ear. With a mortifying sound, Crowley melts into it, determined to wring every moment of contact that he can from this experience. Whatever he can get before Aziraphale changes his mind and ends this madness.

When Aziraphale starts to withdraw Crowley makes a desperate, broken whine in his throat and reaches for something to hold. Anything to keep Aziraphale’s lips pressed to him like this- one hand clutches at the lapel of Aziraphale’s jacket while the other slithers snake-like around the back of his head until Crowley’s fingers are tangled in the cotton-fluff of Aziraphale’s hair. Incredibly, Aziraphale allows this, allows Crowley to hold him and prolong this once-in-an-eternity kiss.

It can’t last forever, though, no matter what Crowley wants. Aziraphale pulls away just half an inch, enough to draw a shuddering laugh of a breath and rest his forehead against Crowley’s. He’s greedy, Crowley is, he wants those lips back within reach, that tongue back between his teeth, that breath in his own lungs. He mustn’t take, can’t push, can only receive what he’s given.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says again, so close that Crowley can feel the words as a breeze on his skin. “I love you and I know that we should have a proper conversation about this, but...”

Crowley hears it, in the way Aziraphale trails off. He hears the echoes of a hundred moments before, a stain on a coat, a bag of old books, an overeager executioner, a struggling play. He doesn’t ask, never asks in so many words, but he presents the problem and waits for Crowley to offer the solution. And isn’t that what Crowley loves? To be the saviour of the hour, to have that sunshine smile turned his way?

“Let’s go somewhere more private, talking can wait.” The words are thick in his throat, choking the life from him as he spits them onto the tablecloth and waits for Aziraphale’s reaction.

He’s full of questions, words that want to spill from him like blood until they soak into the dirt. Aziraphale smiles, sitting back to give Crowley the full effect. The crinkles around his eyes, the barely contained affection in the curve of his mouth, the fluttering of his damnable eyelashes like an eligible coquette. The questions evaporate, Crowley can wait, talking can wait, kissing is a priority now. It hasn’t been an option before but now it’s  _ everything _ .

“Let’s go, then.” Aziraphale is already standing and tugging at his waistcoat, smoothing Crowley’s fingerprints off his lapel.

“Wha- We gotta- The bill, angel,” Crowley stutters.

He wants to stand but he’s not convinced that he even has legs, let alone the ability to successfully pilot them.

“Taken care of,” Aziraphale dismisses the objection with a wave of his hand and looks expectantly at Crowley. “Shall we?”

Against the odds, Crowley finds his feet and they are exactly where he left them, at the ends of his legs. Without enough time to experiment thoroughly, he forces himself to stand and is pleasantly surprised when the whole set up does its job and holds him upright.

“Where do you have in mind?” Crowley manages to ask, although, with his nerves in tatters like this, he wouldn’t be able to hit his desired level of casual disinterest if it had been a barn door.

Aziraphale tucks his hand into the crook of Crowley’s elbow as if he’s done it a million times before. As Crowley is staring down at the pink fingers curled around his forearm, Aziraphale gives a little squeeze and starts them walking towards the door.

“Your place, I think. If that’s alright, of course.”

They get to the street somehow, Crowley doesn’t remember a step of it. He’s not sure he’s ever gone straight home from the Ritz before, it’s always been drinks at the bookshop or a walk around one of the parks after lunch. This is new territory and he doesn’t have a map. All he has is Aziraphale smiling calmly and,  _ oh heaven _ , reaching to take his hand.

It’s a straight shot from the Ritz down Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner, just a few minutes walk, really. Crowley can see his building from the first corner of Green Park but he’s lost all the same. Nothing is familiar, all his landmarks are wiped from his memory because Aziraphale has kissed him. Aziraphale  _ loves _ him. Nothing can ever be the same again.

Aziraphale must get them through the doors and into the lift because Crowley is sure that he isn’t currently capable. It’s as if he’s walking through a dream, aware that this isn’t his reality but completely unable to control what’s happening.

At the door to his flat Aziraphale pauses and squeezes Crowley’s hand, a look of worry flitting across his face. Crowley wants to banish it immediately, to soothe and distract until Aziraphale forgets that there was ever anything to worry about. He opens his mouth to let out whatever quip or witticism might spring to mind first but Aziraphale beats him to it.

“Crowley, I’m afraid I’ve been something of a steamroller so far. Is this something you actually want?” The furrow between Aziraphale’s brows reappears, deeper than before. “If you’re doing this just because you want to make me happy, well, I shall be very cross.”

Crowley leans back to look down his nose at Aziraphale as if he’s examining a particularly troublesome fern.

“You’ll be cross? Aziraphale, remind me. Are you a little girl from a 1920s children's book?”Crowley manages to keep his tone at gentle mocking, only enough to ruffle Aziraphale’s feathers a little. “Will you also thcream and thcream until you’re thick?” He affects the lisp of Violet Bott to emphasise his point.

He’s rewarded with a prim little pout but Aziraphale’s eyes are shining all the same, delighted at Crowley’s teasing. Things start to feel a little more normal, a little more familiar, a little more under control and less like a runaway train. Crowley pushes open his front door and gestures for Aziraphale to lead the way. Still, Crowley recognises his opportunity to tap the brakes, as it were. His chance to check in about what is happening between them.

“Looks like we’ll be doing a little more talking than you planned, angel,” he says as he follows Aziraphale in and closes the door.

It’s a tremendous amount of effort but Crowley manages to steer them towards the living room rather than the bedroom. Aziraphale is pliant and passive until he sees the extent of Crowley’s furniture. He halts and Crowley crashes into his back, all elbows and edges.

“A throne, Crowley? Really? And you have the audacity to mock me.” Aziraphale tuts and shakes his head in a show of dismay.

Before Crowley can fire back any kind of defence, Aziraphale snaps his fingers and materialises a squishy looking loveseat and a frankly obscene number of cushions.

“Why don’t you redecorate while you’re at it?” Crowley grumbles, taking long strides over to the new addition and pacing around it. Just in time, he looks up to see Aziraphale’s hand raised and poised to click some chintz and brocade nightmare into Crowley’s pristine home. “Don’t!”

Aziraphale’s face crinkles into a grin of pure mischief and a little more of the tension melts away from Crowley’s chest.

“Come, sit with me, my love,” Aziraphale invites, both hands held out in front of him for Crowley to take.

Accepting is as easy as breathing, that is to say, that it doesn’t come naturally to Crowley and he makes an assortment of unseemly noises as he struggles to get it right. Aziraphale is patience personified while Crowley works to get his corporation under control and finally folds himself into a corner of the sofa.

Aziraphale is luxurious amongst the pillows, putting them all to shame with his softness. This isn’t something to be scared about, Crowley tells himself, this is just Aziraphale taking off the brakes a bit. He can handle this, he can.

“I find myself desperately wanting to kiss you again,” Aziraphale admits, blushing prettily.

He can’t handle this.

Crowley puts out a hand, asking for a pause, whilst sliding the fingers of his other hand up the bridge of his nose to rub at his eyes under his sunglasses. Frustrated with himself, Crowley pushes the glasses up into his hair and scrubs at his face with both hands as if this action will help him find the words he needs.

“My darling, are you quite alright?” There’s so much concern and affection in Aziraphale’s voice that Crowley fears he might melt.

He throws his head back and stares at the ceiling, wincing when his sunglasses fall out of his hair and onto the floor behind the sofa.

“This is a lot, yeah? I’ve had six  _ thousand _ years of ‘not now, Crowley’, ‘he’s not my friend’, ‘I don’t even like you’, and ‘you go too fast for me, Crowley’. I’ve got used to it, the distance, you know?” He pauses at Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath, forces himself to look and see the damage he’s doing.

Aziraphale’s eyes are suddenly brimming with tears, his hands clasped in his lap so tightly that his knuckles are white and his nails are leaving little half-moon indentations in the skin. Crowley wants to take it back, to swat his words out of the air between them. But that wouldn’t be fair to either of them, not now when this might be something they can actually have.

“I’ve been so unconscionably cruel to you,” Aziraphale sounds broken and Crowley did that, he made him sound this way. “And now I’m trying to ignore every cruel thing I’ve ever said to you just because I’m ready. Oh, Crowley. I’m sorry.”

Reaching over to take Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley eases the death grip he’s been exerting and takes a number of deep breaths. The worst part is over, Aziraphale is still here, holding his hands and blinking back stubborn tears. Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s knuckles to his mouth and kisses them gently.

“I love you, Aziraphale. You’re my best friend and I am completely, hopelessly in love with you. I have spent so long telling myself that you could never want this, never want  _ me _ , now I just can’t work out how to do this emotional stuff properly and you deserve that.”

How is this so much more difficult than he’d expected? Crowley wants to give himself a shake and knock the idiocy out. Before he can gather himself together again, Aziraphale slips off the edge of the sofa and kneels before Crowley. Either he’s given up fighting the tears or they’ve overwhelmed him because his cheeks are wet with them. Crowley watches, speechless, as Aziraphale cradles his hands and presses kisses into his upturned palms.

“I want you. I’m so sorry that I ever made you doubt the depth of my affection for you. We’re safe now and I just can’t keep it inside any longer, I might explode if I tried. Is that awfully selfish of me?”

There’s something about the way that Aziraphale asks, something in his tone or the turn of his mouth, that tells Crowley all he needs to know about the sincerity of the question. This isn’t another thinly-veiled attempt at getting him to say what Aziraphale wants to hear, it’s an admission of Aziraphale’s shortcomings and his love. Crowley is spectacular at making bad decisions, he knows this, but what’s one more?

“Angel, we can talk this to death later but if you don’t get up here and kiss me right now-” Crowley’s threat is never revealed as Aziraphale lunges upwards and silences him in a collision of lips.

Aziraphale kisses insistently, pressing up and back until Crowley is all but pinned under him in a mountain of cushions. He climbs back onto the sofa, straddling Crowley’s thighs and sinking one hand into Crowley’s hair. Finally believing this reality, Crowley surrenders to Aziraphale’s kiss, parting his lips and welcoming the velvet wetness of Aziraphale’s tongue into his own mouth. His hands find their way between jacket and waistcoat, stroking up Aziraphale’s back between worn velvet and fragile silk. The warmth of Aziraphale’s body is intoxicating in ways Crowley could never have imagined, the snake in him wants to nuzzle all over and find the warmest spots to curl up in, and perhaps later he will.

How do the humans do this? There’s so much sensation to process at once and Crowley is easily overwhelmed by it. Aziraphale is under his fingers, in his lungs, on his tongue, breathy gasps ringing in his ears, if he were to open his eyes they would be filled with Aziraphale too. It’s so much.

He’s hard in his trousers, a thick line of need and want that he’s never felt before, something that’s wholly for Aziraphale and straining against the restrictive embrace of his jeans. Now that he’s allowed this,  _ he is allowed this, isn’t he? _ Crowley is giving in to his urges, wanting to be cocooned in something hot and tight. Aziraphale must be feeling the same because, just as Crowley lifts his hips in a tentative gesture of encouragement, Aziraphale rolls his down and grinds his own hardness into Crowley.

A shock of pleasure rips through Crowley’s body, from his cock up his spine and out to his limbs. He breaks away from the kiss, gasping and flushed, to stare at Aziraphale with wide-eyed amazement.

“Pleasssse,” he gasps, too far gone to control his hiss. “Do that again?”

Aziraphale smiles with something wicked and predatory in his eyes before dropping his mouth to Crowley’s neck, grazing his teeth along the curves of Crowley’s throat and rocking his hips once more. Aziraphale’s cock is hot and hard, and as it rubs along Crowley’s length for a second time, something urgent and irresistible builds to a peak and breaks without warning. He’s holding Aziraphale tightly, burying his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and sobbing as his traitorous cock throbs and pulses. Something hot and wet seeps into the fabric of his jeans just as realisation seeps into Crowley’s mind. He’s still shuddering with his release as Aziraphale pulls away to look at him.

“Oh, my darling,” his voice is rough and thick with lust. “Did you- Are you?”

Crowley’s croaked response and helpless nod seem to light Aziraphale’s own fuse and he clings to Crowley like a limpet, grinding his hips in short, erratic thrusts. Crowley cradles him as his pleasure crests and consumes, whispering half-formed endearments as best he can through his own delirium. Two floors below and entirely unknown to either of them, Crowley’s nearest neighbour finds himself doubled over in inexplicable ecstasy and coming hard in his boxers as the ripples of two celestial orgasms roll through his flat.

The waves recede, leaving them both beached on the loveseat in each other's arms. Any shame that Crowley has been contemplating is swept away by the sure knowledge that Aziraphale is as overwhelmed by these new experiences as he is.

“Will it- Do you suppose- Ha,” Aziraphale swallows thickly. “Is it like that every time, do you think?”

Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale’s hair, fighting a smile that won’t die. He wants to knock any mirth out of his voice so there’s no chance that Aziraphale can feel belittled when he finally answers.

“You’ve never, uh,  _ done that _ before?” Crowley shifts as he asks, too aware of the cooling wetness trapped against his skin.

“Thought it was safer not to, really. Hardly the sort of activity that Gabriel and his ilk would approve of.” He shudders a little at this and Crowley pulls one hand out from under Aziraphale’s jacket so he can stroke the length of his back. “I’m afraid I’ll be relying on you to lead the way, my dear.”

Crowley laughs at that, unable to contain the desperate, choking sound that swells within him.

“Angel, what in the world could have made you think that this-” he gestures vaguely at them both in demonstration, “was the result of me being a well-practised lover?”

Aziraphale looks up at him and blinks with a dawning realisation.

“Never?” He asks with something uncomfortably close to awe in his eyes.

“Without you? What would be the point?” Crowley shrugs with more honesty than he’s used to.

Apparently, Aziraphale finds something irresistible about this new information as his gaze darkens into a sultry hunger that makes Crowley’s stomach turn somersaults.

“Bedroom. Now.”

Crowley really doesn’t need telling twice, both helping Aziraphale up and scrambling to his own feet as quickly as he can manage. To his credit, Aziraphale isn’t distracted by the veritable forest that Crowley has nurtured in his home, nor any of the select  _ objets _ that litter the place. Crowley really doesn’t want to have to explain that lectern right now, not when everything is going so well.

As soon as they’re in the bedroom, Aziraphale is stripping his clothes with an energy that Crowley was in no way prepared for, century-old items kicked and shuffled off onto the floor. He’s down to just his cotton boxers before Crowley realises that he’s been staring and not undressing himself as well. The sight of the wet patch of fabric clinging to Aziraphale’s skin is the first physical evidence that Crowley has ever seen of Aziraphale as a sexual being. The renewed erection beside it is the second.

Without thought, Crowley is pulling his shirt over his head and dropping to his knees. He’s somewhat surprised to find that he’s wearing a vest under his shirt but that comes off quickly enough as well. With his fingertips just under the waistband of Aziraphale’s underwear, he looks up and licks his lips.

“Can I?” Crowley has to ask, needs permission before taking this liberty.

“Please, yes, Crowley.” Aziraphale sounds as desperate as Crowley feels, but it’s consent and Crowley manages to hear it over the pounding blood in his ears.

The boxers slide down Aziraphale’s thighs and as soon as the sticky evidence of his first orgasm is uncovered, Crowley’s tongue is on it and lapping it up with broad strokes. He looks up at Aziraphale as he savours the salty musk of him, loving the look of hazy arousal and disbelief on Aziraphale’s beautiful face.

Working purely on instinct, Crowley licks the head of Aziraphale’s cock with the flat of his tongue. Aziraphale’s eyes widen and the most delicious gasp reaches Crowley’s ears which seals it for him. With his hands on Aziraphale’s hips, he shuffles them around and urges Aziraphale to sit on the edge of the bed, allowing Crowley unfettered access to him. Aziraphale leans back on his elbows, watching Crowley as he kisses the hot, hard length and then takes it into his mouth.

He’s tentative at first, unsure of what will feel best, whether Aziraphale will enjoy the feel of his mouth. Teeth are bad, he’s sure he’s heard that somewhere so he uses his lips to keep them away and slides down further until Aziraphale’s head falls back.

“Oh Crowley, you maddening creature!” Aziraphale cries out, his hips shuddering. “The mouth on you!”

Encouraged, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s cock deeper still and begins to suck. He’s seen movies, read magazines, even been present at an orgy or two back in the day, but Crowley is fast realising that none of this is as easy as it looks. Is he supposed to use his hands? Is it depth or suction that matters more? Should he be moving his head more? So many questions and no way of knowing except hoping that Aziraphale will give sufficient feedback.

Without warning, Aziraphale’s hands sink into Crowley’s hair and take hold of his head, guiding him into a steady rhythm that Aziraphale matches with little thrusts of his hips. It’s almost too easy for Crowley to relinquish control and let Aziraphale use him,  _ he was made for this _ , for loving and pleasing Aziraphale.

His stamina has improved, but Aziraphale is still spilling thick and salty down Crowley’s throat within minutes of them making it to the bedroom. Still held in the tight confines of his jeans, Crowley’s own cock twitches and leaks a spurt of precome. He could climax just from Aziraphale’s pleasure, he thinks.

Before the thought has time to develop more, Aziraphale is pulling out of his mouth and leaning down to kiss him. Knowing that his mouth is heavy with the taste of Aziraphale’s climax, Crowley thrills at the enthusiasm of the kiss.

“Would you fuck me, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, breaking the kiss just long enough to ask.

It’s both the stupidest question and the most insanely arousing thing that Crowley has ever been asked. He’s on his feet and wriggling out of his damp, restrictive jeans in an instant.

“Will I- Angel, how could you even ask such a thing?” Crowley crawls onto the bed and kisses Aziraphale until he’s laying flat and naked under Crowley.

“Be gentle, this is all so new.” Aziraphale’s timid sincerity would break Crowley’s heart if it weren’t also the only thing holding him together.

“Of course, my love, my angel. Of course.”

There’s an awkward moment of moving around each other but there’s so much love and anticipation and need that neither of them can spare the time to be embarrassed. Aziraphale leans over a stack of pillows and rests his head on his arms, presenting his arse in a way that Crowley only allowed himself to dream about on the most special of occasions.

There’s lube in the bedside drawer because Crowley expects it to be there. The snap of the bottle cap makes Aziraphale shiver and Crowley soothes him with a kiss to the shoulder before warming the liquid on his fingers. He presses one finger against Aziraphale’s hole and hears the way they both stop breathing. With a smile, he circles his fingertip around the tight entrance and then slowly eases his finger inside.

“How’s that, angel?” Crowley asks, doing his best not to sound anxious.

“Divine, I’m already imagining how you will feel inside me.”

Crowley hides his face against Aziraphale’s back and whines, overcome with a saccharine mix of love and lust. A twitch of the muscles around his finger reminds him of his task and he sets about opening Aziraphale up as slowly and as gently as he can.

Finally,  _ finally, _ Aziraphale is ready for him although they’re both half-mad with want, there would never be any rushing of this. Crowley works lube over his achingly hard cock and rubs the slippery head of it against Aziraphale’s entrance. He’s about to ask if he should continue but Aziraphale pushes back, a little impatient rocking of his hips, and Crowley takes his cue, breaching Aziraphale in as smooth a motion as he can manage. His head drops onto Aziraphale’s back as the tight heat overwhelms him and he struggles to hold himself together.

“Oh, Crowley, is it good? How is it?”

“Fuck, Aziraphale. You’re what dreams are made of.” He can’t explain himself any clearer, lost to the intimate pleasures of Aziraphale’s body.

“I love you so much. You feel incredible, better than I ever imagined.”

At the back of his mind, Crowley recognises that he very much wants to know about Aziraphale’s imaginings, but right now he wants to  _ move _ and claim and possess and climb inside Aziraphale in an entirely different way to the way he had only that morning. A lifetime ago by any other measure.

His thrusts start slow and cautious, easing them both into the new sensations but soon enough he finds his pace and is holding on by the skin of his teeth. Aziraphale is pushing back, alternately grinding his cock into the pillows below him and taking everything that Crowley can give him.

“Darling, let go. Come inside me, please. Please, love, I want to feel it.”

Crowley doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to hearing Aziraphale talk like this, not in a million years if they should happen to be so lucky. Refusing him has never been within Crowley’s abilities so it’s mere seconds later that he’s spilling, blind with pleasure and crying the name of his beloved in every tongue he’s ever known.

Aziraphale follows a moment later, making a mess of the pillows and howling his ecstasy. Crowley holds him and kisses down his back, still making a mental map of every new inch of Aziraphale that he’s getting to explore.

Later, when they are lying in clean sheets and idly kissing, Aziraphale makes an amused little noise in the back of his throat.

“Crowley,” he starts to ask, “is your whole home a shrine to our love?”

He tries to answer, he really does. It’s just that none of what he wants to say manages to come out of his mouth in any kind of sensible order. Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s temple and quiets him.

“I kept you waiting for so long, and while I hoped that you would wait I would have understood if you hadn’t. I would. But you waited and you _ hurt _ and you hoped. How futile and frustrating it must have been, how awful I was-”

“Angel, no,” Crowley cuts him off, unable to bear Aziraphale’s pain over things long passed. “I knew, I knew you loved me. I knew why I couldn’t have you. I wouldn’t have changed it, not at the cost of your safety. Never.”

Minutes pass in silence, Crowley’s ear pressed to Aziraphale’s chest and his arms wound so tightly around his back. He only wants this moment to last.

“You have me now, I won’t let anything change that. Not ever.” Aziraphale says into Crowley’s hair. “You’ve always been what my dreams were made of.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Jam first. Always.  
> 2\. I feel very clever and sexy for making an appropriate _Just William_ reference in a Good Omens fic.  
> 3\. I love comments more than life. Please feed me.


End file.
